


The Shirt Thief

by BeautyOnFyre



Series: Closet Commandeerer Series [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Full Shift Werewolves, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Werefox Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 18:27:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3906310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautyOnFyre/pseuds/BeautyOnFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles knew, in the back of his mind, that this was really par for the course. He acknowledged to himself that it was only a matter of time before his luck (which is usually nonexistent) ran out and he found himself stuck between a rock and a hard place. </p><p>Or just strung up in a tree by his ankle. That counted too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shirt Thief

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to be read with the assumption that Stiles is old enough to be a consenting adult. 
> 
> WARNING: Mature content at the end of the fic.

Stiles knew, in the back of his mind, that this was really par for the course. He acknowledged to himself that it was only a matter of time before his luck (which is usually nonexistent) ran out and he found himself stuck between a rock and a hard place. 

Or just strung up in a tree by his ankle. That counted too. 

The rope was infused with wolfsbane and foxglove, leaving him stuck in his shifted fox form, dangling from his muddy left rear paw in a clearing. If he was a human, not that he had shifted in back in the past three years, he could just use his thumbs to hit the release further up the line, but alas, the trickster became the tricked. 

The wind whipped through the trees with the cold fall air and he found himself shivering as he swayed, blood rushing to his head and quickly losing circulation in his limbs. A rushed crunching in the underbrush alerted him to someone coming. Probably a hunter. 

A tall-ish man entered the clearing, dark hair thick on his head and a beard shaved into a neat goat tee that made Stiles' knees weak. Or maybe they were just going numb from loss of blood flow. That might be why. He was about to start his 'injured helpless animal' routine when he spotted the barrel of the shotgun over goat-tee man's shoulder. 

Of course all the hot guys are hunters. 

The guy sighed, rolled his eyes as he looked at the contraption that captured the fox and hefted his gun over his shoulder and into his hands, cocking it and taking aim. Stiles closed his eyes.

He knew it was the end. 

His luck had finally run out. 

The shot fired and Stiles' ears were filled with the whooshing of displaced air before his head smacked into the forest floor. 

Shaking away the dizziness, Stiles reoriented his self just as he was grabbed by his scruff and paralyzed. The hunter wrapped his small body in his warm jacket before slipping a rope muzzle around his snout. He can smell the foxglove again, damn it all. He was hefted into the hunter's strong arms and was carried out of the preserve, only to be shoved into a cage (more like a large pet carrier) in the hunter's sleek silver car and driven out of the forest, shotgun stowed in the back. 

"I'm not a hunter and I know you're not a fox. You're lucky I found you first." The warning isn't as reassuring as Stiles thinks it's meant to be but there's nothing he can do as a muzzled fox in a cage. 

 

***

 

Stiles doesn't realize that he fell asleep until the man is opening the cage and coaxing him out, "Come on. We need to get you cleaned up and check your leg." Another man came into his view and he scrambled further back into the cage. He realized, as the smell of antiseptic, animals and fear hit him like a crashing wave, that goat-tee man had moved his carrier while he was asleep. The second man had dark skin and a warm, patient expression on his face. What made Stiles' hackles rise was the latex gloves and the tray of instruments behind the man. He was clearly a doctor or a vet and Stiles never trusted either of those, having heard enough horror stories as a child. A stifled hiss came out despite the muzzle as he backed as far in as possible to the back of the cage. 

"Maybe I should leave for a few minutes. You can let him sniff the room out."

"I don't think-"

The doctor walked out the door and closed it behind him with a click. Stiles waited, fur still raised on his back, for the man to return but he didn't. "I have some food here. Thought you might be hungry."

Snapping his attention back to the hunter-but-'not-a-hunter', Stiles warily sniffed the container that the man opened. Berries. Tons of different berries. Possibly poisoned berries. He came closer to the edge of the cage and sniff before the man sighed, grabbed a handful and shoved them in his mouth. The man theatrically chewed then swallowed the berries. "They're safe. You would be able to smell if they were tainted."

Stiles didn't have much to lose at this point but still hesitated. 

"Look, you need to get out of that cage or else I will be forced to strip away whatever dignity you have left and pull you out. Your choice. It's also your choice whether or not you want to starve. Plus, I hate cherries so those are going to go to waste unless you eat them for me."

Stiles let out a huff and walked out of the carrier a little bit at a time. Assessing his surroundings, he decided it was mostly safe. He padded across the table, stumbling a little on his legs, to the berries when he realized that he still had the muzzle on and snorted at the man for his stupidity. 

"Right. I'll take it off but I expect you to behave. You should stay shifted until we see if you have a concussion. Your fox healing will be better for fixing any damage." Stiles nodded once and the muzzle was loosened and removed. He promptly clamped his teeth onto the man's hand before retreating to the berries as the not-hunter recoiled. "Damn it. I said behave, not bite me, you little shit." 

They both watched as the skin knitted back together and was whole again within a minute. Stiles was shocked and sniffed the air again. He couldn't get a reading on this guy's scent and it made fear course through him. The man's nostrils flared as he scented the air and held up his hands in the universal 'I mean no harm' signal. 

"I have my scent blocked for my safety. If I come across hunters in the woods, I can't have their pets telling them I'm a werewolf, can I?"

Stiles remained wary. Being captured by a shifter didn't mean he was safe. He took a mouthful of berries without removing his eyes from the man. He moved to lean against the wall as Stiles ate and just smirked at his bad manners as he scarfed down his meal. After a few mouthfuls, Stiles pulled back so he wouldn't get sick and barked at the man in what he hoped was interpreted as a question. 

"What?"

Stiles huffed and grabbed a couple berries from the container in his jaw, dropped them by his feet, squished them under his paw, and attempted to write "WHO" across the metal examination table in the berry juice. The man understood what he wanted and chuckled. 

"My name is Peter. Peter Hale. You're in Beacon Hills, California and the date is November 10th, 2018. The vet is Alan Deaton, the Hale pack emissary. A Druid. He's going to check you over, make sure you're not going to die, then you're coming with me to the compound. We have much to discuss with my sister, the alpha. You're in our territory and under our protection right now."

Stiles quirked a brow and Peter pushed off the wall holding out a hand. "I would appreciate it if you didn't bite me this time."

The hand was soon before his nose and he sniffed it, still not smelling the predator that lurked before his eyes. He sat on his haunches and scratched behind his ear, not quite reaching where his itch was when a set of fingers with godly nails descended and got the right spot dead on. His right leg started thumping against the table until he let too much weigh lean onto his left leg and he yipped in pain. Peter was quick to lift him up and examine the offending limb. 

"Doc!" Peter's voice carried through the door and it opened to admit the veterinarian with those damn white gloves. 

Stiles scrambled up Peter's arm and around his neck, tail curling around Peter's neck like a fur scarf, hissing at the newcomer. His paw twinged in the worst way but he ignored it. His instincts told him to keep Peter between himself and the tall doctor at all costs.

"I don't think he favors my trade," Deaton joked. He watched Peter's hand hesitantly moving to stroke the rusty fur along the fox's spine and his hackles lowered minutely. 

 

***

 

After a drawn-out process of coaxing Stiles into an industrial stainless steel sink for a long-overdue bath, Deaton removing his gloves and surgical implements from the room, and a brace wrapped around Stiles' injured leg to help support his weigh, the pair drove to the Hale Estate. Due to his newfound cleanliness, Peter didn't force him back into the cage. He did, however, produce a blanket that smelled a bit like himself and leaves from the trunk and wrap Stiles up in it. 

"What's your name?" Peter had asked as they pulled out of the parking lot onto the main roadway and Stiles shot him a look that told him he was stupid to expect a reply. 

"A-B-C-D-" Peter started reciting the alphabet with Stiles barking once at 'S'. They repeated until Stiles growled when Peter started up again after the second 'S'. 

"S-T-I-L-E-S? Stiles?" Peter paused. "What the hell is a Stiles?" he whispered to himself and received a glared from the fluffy, red quadruped in the passenger seat. Stiles hunkered down into the blanket and warmed up. On the ride, he occasionally felt Peter's hand on his back as they made turns. He was glad that the werewolf was so considerate of him to make sure that he wouldn't slide off the leather seat. 

When they arrived at the house - mansion - Peter scooped him up, blanket and all, and carried him into the house. He could smell the mounting terror and could tell that the fox's flight instincts were kicking in. "Shh. You're fine. If we wanted to kill you, I would've shot you in the forest, poisoned your food, drowned you in the bath or dissected you on the table. I've had ample opportunity to kill you thus far and haven't. Trust me on this, if nothing else."

Stiles took in a deep breath and snuggled into his bundle more. If his nose ended up under Peter's arm, no one mentioned it. 

 

***

 

He was to be a glorified house pet, at least until his leg healed. Stiles was so clearly not a threat and refused to shift to talk with Talia, leaving him to bend under her stipulations. She had offered to house and feed him until his body healed from the foxglove poisoning and his leg knitted itself back together. Then, it would be his decision to move on or stay in Beacon Hills with them. 

The human part of himself, though shrinking with the passage of time without shifting, liked the companionship of the pack, but his fox yipped in protest. Foxes were solitary creatures outside of heats and he had been too stressed and his body too taxed while he was on the run to go into a heat. He didn't want companionship. 

In his bones, Stiles could almost feel the impending doom that was heat week looming over his head now that he was stationary and stagnant. Maybe he would see how it went and if he still wasn't comfortable, he would leave. Head further south for the winter. 

That sounded good in theory. 

 

***

 

Practical application of this plan, however, went to hell in a hand basket. 

The Hales placed him in the basement through his heat and actually called another fox in from an allied pack to be a potential heat partner and help but Stiles' fox wasn't having any of it. He hissed and spat at the intruder even as he became more delirious. He was adamant that this stranger wouldn't touch him. Instead, he curled up miserably in his den in the basement, body too hot against the old sheets. He pulled at the heap of sheets that the werewolves had left in the corner of their basement to get washed until he found two scents he liked; Talia and Peter. 

When the week had passed and the stranger went home, Talia unlocked the basement door and left it open but Stiles remained in his den, alone and unsatisfied in the scented sheets. 

 

***

 

Peter walked into his room and froze at the scent of someone else in his space. No one came into his room. Ever. He could smell Stiles but couldn't find him at first glance. A quick search found his laundry basket tipped over and his shirts from the last few days missing. Approaching the side of the bed, he flipped up the bed skirt to see two glowing eyes open before closing sleepily again with a sigh of contentment. 

"You can sleep on the bed, you know. It's big enough for three people let alone one fox." Stiles replied with an approximation of a hum. 

Peter shrugged before putting his laundry back in the hamper and stripping off his clothes for the day. He threw the jeans and boxers in the hamper as well, dropping his shirt at the edge of the bed in a peace offering. 

When he woke up the next morning, the shirt was nowhere to be seen. Another victim claimed by the little shirt thief.

 

***

 

"Have you seen Stiles today?" 

Talia looked up from the bills in front of her to see Peter looking around. "Did you lose him?"

The withering look she received told her all she needed to know. 

"One does not simply 'lose' a Stiles." Peter sighed and let out a small 'oof' noise when Stiles pounced on him from his hiding spot atop the grandfather clock. The pair tumbled to the ground with Stiles astride Peter's chest, yipping victoriously. Peter narrowed his eyes before scratching him behind the ears. "Well played. I think you deserve lunch for that stealthy attack." Stiles nosed Peter's chin once the werewolf sat upright. 

The alpha watched the exchange with a grin. Her brother would become an even bigger softie yet. 

 

***

 

Derek was wandering about the house with a purpose. "Uncle Peter?"

He called as he knocked on the man's bedroom door to receive no reply. He walked up the stairs to his study, no Peter. He ventured further up to the top floor library, no Peter. Derek sighed. Peter's car was here, so where was he?

He sat down on the library's window seat to regroup when he saw Stiles tear out of the forest and skid around a thick tree stump used for chopping fire wood. Seconds later, Peter crashed out of the tree line in full wolf form, his grey coat whipping around him as he laid chase to Stiles. 

Derek watched, completely befuddled, as Peter found Stiles and they rolled across the grass. His snooty, stiff uncle was playing with Stiles. He shook his head and continued to watch the pair until Peter rolled onto his back in the thick grass and Stiles curled up beside him, cleaning Peter's muzzle. They nipped at one another fondly and settled into the grass together. 

With a long-suffered sigh, the teen trekked back down the stairs to where his mother stood by the back door, watching the pair nuzzling one another to cover each other in their scent. "I see you found him," Derek motioned to the pair in the grass.

Talia gave a small smile, "Thanks for looking anyways." She made no move to go talk to Peter even though she had been hellbent on speaking with him not fifteen minutes earlier. 

"Aren't you going to-?"

Derek cut himself off when Talia shook her head. "Not now. It can wait," she replied cryptically. Derek just shrugged and walked back up the stairs to his room to listen to music alone. His family was weird. 

 

***

 

Stiles had been asleep on one of Peter's cushy pillows on his bed when he felt the discomfort. He kicked his legs a bit but still didn't feel quite right. He rolled off the pillow and followed his nose sleepily to the delicious scent that made him relax and curled up against the warmth for another hour or so. 

Peter shook him awake not long after and wore a look of dismay. Stiles ignored his bed partner as he stretched his lithe body and flexed his aching spine with his tail aloft, feeling an odd rush of endorphins when his hips were held high. The other man bolted from his bed and plastered himself against the far wall, eyes never leaving Stiles. "Stop that!" Peter demanded. 

Stiles cocked his head, rear still happily in the air as he enjoyed the stretch of his spine. 

"You're presenting, Stiles. You're in heat." 

It hit the small werefox like a ton of bricks and he immediately lowered himself completely to the bed, wrapping his tail around him self consciously. His eyes spied the bloody spot he had left on the pillowcase he had occupied the night before and knew Peter was right. He tuned out everything else as he prepared himself for another miserable week. 

 

***

 

All the laundry had been (finally) done the day before Stiles had gone into heat, so he was doubly miserable about the absence of linens to drag into his den to cuddle. By the second day, the Hales had found him another potential heat partner, which he couldn't help but instinctually dislike and violently attack. The other werefox had beat a hasty retreat, knocking on the basement door to be let out after an hour. 

By day three, Stiles was scratching at the door, chattering to be let out. Talia had come in, barely catching Stiles before he could shoot past her into the house full of hormonal werewolves. "You know I can't let you out. You'll start a riot."

He whimpered and cuddled into her embrace. "Peter," he chattered uselessly. He wanted his friend. 

"I think I know what might help."

 

***

 

Stiles smelled Peter and dove out of his den to find a shirt on the top steps by the basement door. He chattered happily before dragging the clothing to his den. It smelled potent, like sweat. It eased him a bit but by the next day, his heat wasn't tapering off like it should. In fact, it seemed exacerbated. He resumed his frantic scratches at the door until his nails bled. When that failed, he started throwing himself at the door by charging it and hurtling his shoulders into the solid metal with a loud thud. 

He wailed as loud as his vocal chords allowed when the door was suddenly opened and Peter came in. "Are you alright?"

"Peter!" Talia yelled but Peter shut the door behind him and placed the inside, and coincidentally werewolf-proof, lock on the door. 

He surveyed the scratches and smeared blood on the door before looking back at the happy Stiles that rubbed against his ankles, blood caked on the black furred toes. Peter couldn't help but scoop up the fox and carry it down the stairs. After setting Stiles down, he took off his clothes and did a full shift into his grey wolf. 

Stiles yipped happily and rubbed his scent into Peter's legs. Peter nudged the fox with his cold nose and got a lick in reply. A simple 'I missed you' between animals. The heat scent, though different from that of a werewolf, still drove Peter to dominate the fox as he clamped his teeth around Stiles' neck. The fox felt marginally better as his muscles went lax and he let Peter be in charge. The primal satisfaction of the act overwhelmed them both and Stiles started to present for his wolf dominant once released. He felt his tail shift to the side as his chosen partner inspected and carefully cleaned him from toes to tail. 

Somewhere in his hidden human mind, Stiles knew this might irreversibly change his easy relationship with the older man, for better or worse. His logical mind couldn't argue with his baser instincts that told him he wanted Peter to mate him. 

To Peter's credit, the man held out, just comforting the fox and grooming him until the next day. With no sign of his heat letting up on day five, he finally gave in. The mounting was painful as Stiles was much smaller than Peter's wolf but the fox lashed out when his wolf tried to pull away. They tied several times over the next two days until Stiles felt the heat receding. The pair were curled up beside the tiny den as Peter couldn't fit in the small space, sharing heat and comfort. They could feel a bond between them, thrumming with life, care and concern. 

Peter wasn't sure what might come of this, if Stiles would stay, if the fox would ever shift, if their mating could produce viable offspring, but he knew he never wanted to be parted from this being. This playful, soulful, stubborn as hell little fox. Peter realized that he would kill for his fox. His mate. His friend. His Stiles. His little shirt thief. 

That was enough for now as they curled together in a furry pile of limbs, not ready to face the rest of the world quite yet, but content.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to all the Sterek fans! I couldn't resist a good Steter fic. 
> 
> Reviews are welcome!


End file.
